The Apartment Next Door by William Andrew Johnston
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William Andrew Johnston >> The Apartment Next Door
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12 The Apartment Next Door
BY
WILLIAM JOHNSTON
AUTHOR OF
THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS, LIMPY, ETC.
ILUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN
_1919_
TO THAT MARVELLOUS SCHEHERAZADE
CAROLYN WELLS HOUGHTON
THE AUTHOR, IN ENVIOUS ADMIRATION,
DEDICATES THIS VOLUME
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FACE OF HATE
II. THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD
III. "MR. FLECK"
IV. THE CLUE IN THE BOOK
V. ON THE TRAIL
VI. THE MISSING MESSAGE
VII. THE WOMAN ON THE ROOF
VIII. THE LISTENING EAR
IX. THE PURSUIT
X. CARTER'S DISCOVERY
XI. JANE'S ADVENTURE
XII. PUZZLES AND PLANS
XIII. THE SEALED PACKET
XIV. THE MOUNTAIN'S SECRET
XV. THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE
XVII. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
XVIII. WHAT THE PACKET CONTAINED
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
* * * * *
She could not bring herself to tell him, the
man she loved, the thing she knew he
was.
More than likely, she alone in all the world--knew
who the murderer was.
Had he been standing there listening? How
much had he heard?
"Thank God," he cried. "Jane, dear,
tell me you are not hurt!"
THE APARTMENT
NEXT DOOR
CHAPTER I
THE FACE OF HATE
It was three o'clock in the morning. Along a deserted pavement of
Riverside Drive strode briskly a young man whose square-set shoulders
and erect poise suggested a military training. His coat, thrown
carelessly open to the cold night wind, displayed an expanse of white
indicative of evening dress. As he walked his heels clicked sharply on
the concrete with the forceful firm tread of the type which does things
quickly and decisively. The intense stillness of the early morning hours
carried the sound in little staccato beats that could be heard blocks
away. A few yards behind him, moving furtively and noiselessly, almost
as if he had been shod with rubber, crept another figure, that of a
stocky, broad-shouldered man, who despite his bulk and weight moved
silently and swiftly through the night, a soft brown hat drawn low over
his eyes as if he desired to avoid recognition.
All at once the man ahead paused suddenly and stood looking out over the
river. Between the Drive and the distance-dimmed lights of the Jersey
shore there rose like great silhouettes the grim figures of several huge
steel-clad battleships, their fighting-tops lost in the shadows of the
opposite hills. Beside them, obscure, with no lights visible, lay the
great transports that in a few hours, or in a few days--who knew--they
would be convoying with their precious cargo of fighting men across the
war-perilled Atlantic.
It was on the forward deck of one of these great battleships that the
eyes of the man ahead were riveted. His shadower, evidently much
concerned in his actions, crept slowly and stealthily forward,
approaching nearer and still nearer without being observed.
A dim light became visible on the warship's deck and then vanished.
Still the man stood there watching, a puzzled, anxious look coming into
his face. Quickly the light reappeared--two flashes, a pause, two
flashes, a pause, and then a single flash. It was such a light as might
have been made by a pocket torch, a feeble ray barely strong enough to
carry to the adjacent shore, a light that if it had been flashed from
some sheltered nook by the boat davits might not even have attracted the
attention of the officer on the bridge nor of the ship's watchmen.
Manifestly it was a signal intended for the eyes of some one on shore.
A muttered imprecation escaped the lips of the watcher on the Drive. He
stood there, straining his eyes toward the ship as if expecting a
following signal, then he turned and gazed aloft at the windows of the
apartment houses lining the driveway to see if some answering signal
flashed back.
And in the shadow of the buildings, hardly ten feet away but half
sheltered by a doorway, stood his sinister pursuer, motionless
but alert.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour they held their positions. At last the
man who was being followed shrugged his shoulders impatiently and set
off again down the Drive, from time to time turning his head to watch
the spot from which the signal had been flashed. Behind him, as
doggedly as ever and now a little closer, crept the man with the hat
over his eyes.
Regardless of the lateness of the hour, at a third-floor window of one
of the great apartment houses lining the Drive sat a young girl in her
nightrobe, with her two great black braids flung forward over her
shoulders, about which she had placed for warmth's sake a quilted
negligee. Jane Strong was far too excited to sleep. An hour before she
had come in from a wonderful party. The music still was playing mad
tunes in her ears. The excitement, the coffee, the spirited tilts at
arms with her many dancing partners had set her brain on fire. Sleep
seemed impossible as yet.
Looking out at the river--a favorite occupation of hers--the sight of
the warships looming up through the darkness reminded her once more that
nearly all of the men with whom she had been dancing had been in
uniform, bringing into prominence in the jumble of ideas in her
over-stimulated brain, almost as a new discovery, the fact that her
country was really engaged in war, that the men, the very men whom she
knew best, were most of them fighting, or soon going to fight in a
foreign land. Suddenly she found herself vaguely wishing that there was
something she might do, something for the war, something to help. Would
it not be splendid, she thought, to go to France as a Red Cross nurse,
to be over there in the middle of things, where something exciting was
forever going on. Life--the only life she knew about, existence as the
petted daughter of well-to-do parents in a big city--had, ever since the
war had begun, seemed strangely flat and uninteresting. Parties, to be
sure, were fun but hardly any one was giving parties this year. The
Stantons had entertained only because their lieutenant son was going
abroad soon, and they wished him to have a pleasant memory to carry with
him. Most of the interesting men she knew already were gone, and now
Jack Stanton was going. How she wished she could find some way of
getting into the war herself.
The sound of approaching footsteps caught her ear. Wondering who was
abroad at that hour of the night she pushed up the window softly and
looked out. In the distance she saw a man approaching, striding briskly
toward her. As she stood idly watching him and wondering about him,
suddenly she caught her breath. She had sighted the other figure behind,
the man creeping stealthily after him. Nearer and nearer they came. In
tense expectation she waited, sensing some unusual development. They had
reached her block now. Almost directly under her window the man in
advance paused to light a cigarette. His shadow paused, too, but some
incautious movement on his part must have betrayed him.
Match in hand, the man in advance stood stock-still, his whole figure
taut, poised, alert, in an attitude of listening. All at once he wheeled
about, discovering the man close behind him. He sprang at once for his
pursuer. The latter took to his heels, dashing around the corner, the
man whom he had been following now hot at his heels.
All trembling with nervous excitement Jane leaned out the window to
listen and watch. She could hear the running feet of both men just
around the corner. What was happening? The running feet came to an
abrupt stop. There was a half-smothered cry, a sharp thud, like a body
striking the pavement, and then came silence. Puzzled, vaguely alarmed,
a hundred questions came pouring into her brain and lingered there
disturbingly. Why had one of these men been shadowing the other? Why had
the pursuer suddenly become the pursued? Why had the running footsteps
come to such an abrupt stop? What was the noise she had heard? What was
happening around the corner? Her fears rapidly growing, she was on the
point of arousing her family. But what excuse should she give? What
could she tell them? After all she had merely seen two men run up the
side street. More than likely they would only laugh at her, and she did
not like being laughed at. Besides, Dad was always cross when suddenly
awakened. Undecided what to do she stood at the window, peering into
the night.
Five minutes, ten minutes she stood there in tremulous perplexity. A
sense of impending tragedy seemed to have laid hold of her. A black
horror seized her and held her at the window. Something terrible,
something tragic, she was sure must have happened. Mustering up her
strength and trying to calm her fears she was about to put down the
window when she heard footsteps once more approaching. Straining her
ears to listen she discovered the sound was that of the steps of a
man--one man--approaching from around the corner. As she watched he
turned into the Drive and came on toward her. She shrank back a little,
fearful of being seen even though her room was in darkness. It was the
first man. She recognized him at once by his top-hat and his evening
clothes. He was walking even more briskly than before, almost running.
There was no sign anywhere of the shorter thick-set man who had been
following him. Something in the appearance of the figure in the street
below struck her all at once as vaguely familiar. She wondered if it
could be any one she knew.
Presently he came directly opposite the light on the other side of the
Drive so that it shone for an instant full on his face. Jane looked and
shuddered. Never in all her life had she seen any man's countenance so
convulsed, not with pain, but with a soul-terrifying expression of hate,
of virulent, murderous hate.
Distorted though the man's face was with such bitter frightfulness, she
recognized him, not as any one she knew, but merely as one of the
tenants in the same apartment building.
"It's one of the people next door," she said to herself and in
verification of her identification, as he approached the building, the
young man cast a swift glance over his shoulder, and then, as if
satisfied that he was unobserved, dashed hurriedly in at the entrance.
Jane, more than ever wrought up with fear and dread of she knew not
what, sprang hastily into bed and drew the covers about her shoulders.
As yet she did not lie down but shiveringly waited. Presently she heard
the elevator stop. She heard the key opening the door of the next
apartment. In a few minutes she heard the man moving about his bedroom,
separated from her own room by a mere six inches of plaster and paper,
or whatever it is that apartment-house walls are made of.
What could have happened? She was certain that something terrible had
occurred in which the young man next door had played a tragic, perhaps
even a criminal part. She tried in vain to conjecture what circumstance
could have been responsible for the look of hatred she had seen on his
face. She wondered what had been the fate of the man who had been
following him. Had they quarrelled and fought? What could have been the
subject of their quarrel?
She tried to summarize what she knew about the people next door, and was
amazed to discover how little she had to draw upon. As in most New York
apartment houses so in Jane's home all the tenants were utter strangers
to each other, one family not even knowing the names of any of the
others. Occasionally, to be sure, one rather resentfully rode up or down
in the elevator with some of the other tenants but always without
noticing or speaking to them. Jane's family had been living in the
building for five years, and of the twenty other families they knew the
names of only two, having learned them by accident rather than
intention. About the people next door Jane now discovered that she
really knew nothing at all. There was a man with a gray beard who never
took off his hat in the elevator, and there was the handsome young chap
whom she had just seen entering. But what their names were, or their
business, or how long they had lived there, or whether they were father
and son, what servants they kept, or whether either or both of them was
married--these were questions she could have answered as readily as if
they had been living in Dallas, Texas, or Seattle, Washington, as in the
next apartment. Quickly she found that she really knew nothing at all
about them except--she could not recall that any one had told her or how
she had got the impression--she was almost certain they were some sort
of foreigners.
Just when it was that her troubled thoughts were succeeded by even more
troubled dreams she was not aware, but it was noon the next day when she
was awakened by the maid bringing in her breakfast tray.
"Terrible, Miss Jane, wasn't it," said the servant, "about that suicide
last night, almost under our noses, you might say."
"Suicide!" cried the girl, at once wide-awake and interested "What
suicide?"
"A man was found dead in the side street right by our building with a
revolver in his hand."
"What sort of a looking man was he?"
"I didn't see him," said the maid, almost regretfully. "He was taken
away before I was up. Cook tells me it was the milkman found him and
notified the police."
"Who was he?"
"Nobody round here knows a thing about him. He shot himself through the
heart and us sleeping here an' not knowing anything at all about it."
"But didn't any one know who he was?"
"Never a soul. The superintendents from all the buildings round took a
look at the body, but none of them knew him. It wasn't anybody that
lived around here. There's a piece in the afternoon papers about it."
"Get me a paper at once," directed the girl.
Eagerly she read the paragraph the maid pointed out. It really told very
little. The body of a plainly dressed man had been found on the
sidewalk. There was a revolver in his hand with one cartridge
discharged, and the bullet had penetrated his heart. He had been a short
stalky man and had worn a brown soft hat. There was nothing about his
clothing to identify him, even the marks where his suit had been
purchased having been removed. He had not been identified. The police
and the coroner were satisfied that it was a case of suicide.
Suicide!
Jane, reading and rereading the paragraph, recalled the unusual
occurrence she had witnessed the night before. Vividly there stood out
before her the strange panorama she had seen, the tall young man in
evening clothes, and the short stalky man with the soft hat who had
followed him. The two of them had run around the corner. Only one of
them had come back. Unforgettably there was imprinted in her memory the
satanic expression on the young man's face as he had hastened into the
house. No wonder he had cast such an anxious glance behind him as
he entered.
Suicide!
Jane was certain that it was no suicide. She remembered the curious thud
she had heard from around the corner, like a body falling to the
pavement. She recalled that it must have been at least ten minutes
before the other man reappeared, time enough to have placed the revolver
in the dead man's hand, time enough even to have removed all possible
means of identification from the man's clothing.
It was not suicide, Jane felt certain. It was murder! Slowly but
oppressingly, overwhelmingly, it dawned on her not only that in all
probability a murder had been committed, but also that she--more than
likely, she alone in all the world--knew who the murderer was, who it
must have been--the young man next door.
CHAPTER II
THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD
Impatiently Jane looked at her wrist watch. It lacked an hour of the
time when she was to meet her mother at the Ritz for tea. Her nerves
still all ajangle from excitement and worry over the morning's tragedy,
and her own accidental secret knowledge of certain aspects of the case
had made it wholly impossible for her to do anything that day with even
simulated interest.
She had been debating with herself whether or not to confide to her
mother the story of the tragic tableau of which she had been an
accidental witness, when Mrs. Strong had dashed into her bedroom to give
her a hurried peck on the cheek and to say that she was off to luncheon
and the matinee with Mrs. Starrett.
"You're not looking well to-day, dear," her mother had said. "Stay in
bed and rest and join us for tea if you like."
Before she had opportunity to tell what she had seen, her mother was
gone, but Jane had found it impossible to obey her well-meant
injunction. She rose and dressed, her mind busy all the while with the
problem of what her duty was. As she donned her clothing she paused from
time to time to listen for sounds from the next apartment.
What was her neighbor doing now? Had he read of the discovery of the
man's body in the street? Perhaps he had fled already? Not a sound was
to be heard there. He did not look in the least like what Jane imagined
a murderer would, yet certainly the circumstances pointed all too
plainly to his guilt. She had seen two men dash around the corner, one
in pursuit of the other. One of them had come back alone. Not long
afterward a body--the body of the other man--had been found with a
bullet in his heart. It must have been a murder.
What ought she to do about it? Was it her duty to tell her mother and
Dad about what she had seen? Mother, she knew, would be horrified and
would caution her to say nothing to any one, but Dad was different. He
had strict ideas about right and justice. He would insist on hearing
every word she had to tell. More than likely he would decide that it was
her duty to give the information to the authorities. Her face blanched
at the thought. She could not do that. She pictured to herself the
notoriety that would necessarily ensue. She saw herself being hounded by
reporters, she imagined her picture in the papers, she heard herself
branded as "the witness in that murder case," she depicted herself being
questioned by detectives and badgered by lawyers.
No, she decided, it would be best for her never to tell a soul, not even
her parents. In persistent silence lay her safest course. After all she
had not witnessed the commission of the crime. She was not even sure
that the man found dead had been one of the two she had watched from her
window. If she saw the body she would not be able to identify it. She
was not even certain in her own mind that the man next door had done the
shooting, however suspicious his actions may have appeared to her.
Besides, he did not look in the least like a murderer. He was too
well-dressed.
In an effort to put the whole thing out of her mind she tried to read,
but was unable to keep her thoughts from wandering. She sat down at the
piano, but music failed to interest or soothe her. She mussed over some
unanswered notes in her desk but could not summon up enough
concentration of mind to answer them. Restless and fidgety, unable to
keep her thoughts from the unusual occurrences that had disturbed her
ordinarily too peaceful life, she decided to take a walk until it was
time to keep her appointment. Something--force of habit probably--led
her to the shopping district. With still half an hour to kill, she went
into a little specialty shop to examine some knitting bags displayed in
the window.
"Why don't you knit as all the other girls are doing?" was her father's
constant suggestion every time she asserted her desire to be doing
something in the war.
"There's no thrill in knitting," she would answer. "Fix it, Dad, so that
I can go to France as a Red Cross nurse or as an ambulance driver, won't
you? I want some excitement."
Always he had refused to consent to her going, insisting that France in
wartime was no place for an untrained girl.
"If I can't go myself, I certainly am not going to send any knitting,"
she would spiritedly answer, but several times recently the sight of
such charming looking knitting bags had tempted her into almost breaking
her resolution.
Inside the shop she found nothing that appealed to her, and contented
herself with buying some toilet articles. As she made her purchases she
noticed, almost subconsciously, a man standing near, talking with one of
the shopgirls--a middle-aged man with a dark mustache.
"The address, please," said the girl, who had been waiting on her.
"Miss Strong," she answered, giving the number of the apartment house on
Riverside Drive.
She recalled afterward that as she mentioned the number the man standing
there had turned and looked sharply at her, but she thought nothing of
it. Her father's name was well known and he had many acquaintances in
the city. More than likely, she supposed, this man was some friend of
her father who had recognized the name.
She lingered a few moments at some of the other counters, aimlessly
inspecting their offerings, and at last, with ten minutes left to reach
the Ritz, emerged from the store. She was amazed to see the man who had
been inside now standing near the entrance, and something within warned
her that he had been waiting to speak to her. As she attempted to pass
him quickly, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path, but raising
his hat deferentially.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Strong," he said, "may I have a word with you?"
Compelled to halt, she looked at him both appraisingly and resentfully.
There was nothing offensive nor flirtatious in his manner, and he seemed
far too respectably dressed to be a beggar. He was almost old enough to
be her father, and besides there was about him an indefinable air of
authority that commanded her attention. She decided that, unusual as his
request appeared, she would hear what he had to say.
"What is it?" she asked, trying to assume an air of hauteur but without
being able wholly to mask her curiosity.
"You are an American, aren't you?" he asked abruptly.
"Of course."
"A good American?"
"I hope so." She decided now that he must be one of the members of some
Red Cross fund "drive," or perhaps an overenthusiastic salesman for
government bonds. "But I don't quite understand what it is that
you wish."
"I can't explain," said her questioner, "but if you really are a good
American and you'd like to do your country a great service--an important
service--go at once to the address on this card."
She took the slip of white pasteboard handed her. On it was written in
pencil "Room 708." The building was a skyscraper down-town.
"What is it?" she asked half indignantly, "a new scheme to sell bonds?"
"No, no, Miss Strong," he cried, "it is nothing like that. It is a great
opportunity to do an important service for America."
"How did you know my name?"
"I heard you give it to the clerk just now."
"And why," she inquired with what she intended to be withering sarcasm,
"have I been selected so suddenly for this important work?"
"I heard the address you gave, that's why," he answered. "That's what
makes it so important that you should go to that number at once. Ask for
Mr. Fleck."
"I can't go," she temporized. "I am on my way now to meet my mother at
the Ritz."
"Go to-morrow, then," he insisted. "I'll see Mr. Fleck meanwhile and
tell him about you."
Puzzled at the man's unusual and wholly preposterous request, yet in
spite of herself impressed by his evident sincerity, Jane turned the
card nervously in her hand and discovered some small characters on the
back; "K-15" they read.
"What do those figures mean?" she asked.
"I can't tell you that. Mr. Fleck will explain everything. Promise me
you will go to see him."
"Who are you?"
"I can't tell you that, yet."
"Who, then, is Mr. Fleck?"
"He will explain that to you."
"What has my address to do with it? I can't understand yet why you make
this preposterous request of me."
"I tell you I can't explain it to you, not yet," the man replied, "but
it's because you live where you do you must go to see Mr. Fleck. It's
about a matter of the highest importance to your government. It is more
important than life and death."
His last words startled her. They brought to her mind afresh the
mysterious occurrence she had witnessed the night before and the equally
mysterious death near her home. Had this man's odd request any
connection, she wondered, with what had happened there? The lure of the
unknown, the opportunity for adventure, called to her, though prudence
bade her be cautious.
"I'll ask my mother," she temporized.
"Don't," cried the man. "You must keep your visit to Mr. Fleck a secret
from everybody. You mustn't breathe a word about it even to your father
and mother. Take my word for it, Miss Strong, that what I am asking you
to do is right. I've two daughters of my own. The thing I'm urging you
to do I'd be proud and honored to have either of them do if they could.
There is no one else in the world but you that can do this particular
thing. A word to a single living soul and you'll end your usefulness.
You must not even tell any one you have talked with me. See Mr. Fleck.
He'll explain everything to you. Promise me you'll see him."
"I promise," Jane found herself saying, even against her better
judgment, won over by the man's insistence.
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